The Great Impersonation eBook

“In a time like this,” he remarked significantly,
“one begins to understand why one of our great
writers—­was it Bernhardi, I wonder?—­has
written that no island could ever breed a race of
diplomatists.”

“The seas which engirdle this island,”
the Ambassador said thoughtfully, “have brought
the English great weal, as they may bring to her much
woe. The too-nimble brain of the diplomat has
its parallel of insincerity in the people whose interests
he seems to guard. I believe in the honesty of
the English politicians, I have placed that belief
on record in the small volume of memoirs which I shall
presently entrust to you. But we talk too seriously
for a summer afternoon. Let us illustrate to the
world our opinion of the political situation and play
another nine holes at golf.”

Dominey rose willingly to his feet, and the two men
strolled away towards the first tee.

“By the by,” Terniloff asked, “what
of our cheerful little friend Seaman? He ought
to be busy just now.”

“Curiously enough, he is returning from Germany
to-night,” Dominey announced. “I
expect him at Berkeley square. He is coming direct
to me.”

CHAPTER XXVI

These were days, to all dwellers in London, of vivid
impressions, of poignant memories, reasserting themselves
afterwards with a curious sense of unreality, as though
belonging to another set of days and another world.
Dominey long remembered his dinner that evening in
the sombre, handsomely furnished dining-room of his
town house in Berkeley Square. Although it lacked
the splendid proportions of the banqueting hall at
Dominey, it was still a fine apartment, furnished in
the Georgian period, with some notable pictures upon
the walls, and with a wonderful ceiling and fireplace.
Dominey and Rosamund dined alone, and though the table
had been reduced to its smallest proportions, the space
between them was yet considerable. As soon as
Parkins had gravely put the port upon the table, Rosamund
rose to her feet and, instead of leaving the room,
pointed for the servant to place a chair for her by
Dominey’s side.

“I shall be like your men friends, Everard,”
she declared, “when the ladies have left, and
draw up to your side. Now what do we do?
Tell stories? I promise you that I will be a
wonderful listener.”

“First of all you drink half a glass of this
port,” he declared, filling her glass, “then
you peel me one of those peaches, and we divide it.
After which we listen for a ring at the bell.
To-night I expect a visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Not a social one,” he assured her.
“A matter of business which I fear will take
me from you for the rest of the evening. So let
us make the most of the time until he comes.”

She commenced her task with the peach, talking to
him all the time a little gravely, a sweet and picturesque
picture of a graceful and very desirable woman, her
delicate shape and artistic fragility more than ever
accentuated by the sombreness of the background.